Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I sigh again at the sound of Memphis’s brick-wall voice returning.

“No, it won’t be a problem.”

When I wake up in the morning, I text Memphis to ask him when I’m supposed to be meeting Wes. Instead of responding with a time, he just sends me Wes’s number.

Which would have been fine had we just been a boss and employee, or whatever we are. But of course, now it looks like I’ve snooped around trying to get his phone number.

Though I can’t deny the fact that a tiny part of me is glad to have it. Should I ever need it. Or something.

So I text Wes to let him know Memphis is sending me along, and we agree to meet up at the restaurant at ten o’clock, since that’s where the vineyard truck is parked.

He gives me a friendly smile when I arrive, and the butterflies in my stomach take flight.

I still feel confused by what happened between us in the kitchen two nights ago. I’d been planning to spend my Sunday evening doing a little self-care and giving myself a pedicure. But instead, I’d sat on a kitchen counter and let Wes stroke me between my legs until I came.

And then he refused to move forward? Like, what hot-blooded man doesn’t want to get laid? Or at least get a blow job?

Part of me wants to demand an explanation. What possible reason could there be for him touching me but refusing to let me touch him?

Instead, I return his smile, hop into the truck, and stare blindly out the window as Wes removes tools from the truck bed and places them in the bin on the back of an ATV parked a few feet away.

Then he loads up next to me.

“Mind if I turn on some music?” he asks, and when I shake my head, he reaches over and adjusts the radio. “All right, let’s go.”

The drive out to the Trager farm takes about thirty minutes, and we spend most of it in silence, each of us just staring ahead as some early 2000s punk band plays through the shitty speakers.

The nice thing about the relative silence is that it gives me a chance to just sit and stare out the window, watching plot after plot of farmland pass by as we drive farther into Rosewood.

Even though I never wanted to live here growing up, it wasn’t ever about the area. Not really. I’ve never taken issue with the rolling hills, the quaint but bustling towns, and long rows of grapes that stretched on for what feels like forever. The weather’s decent, if not a little dry, and the sunsets are beautiful.

It’s the reason we came here in the first place that set me and Rosewood at odds. My mother’s death, and my father’s fear of handling two children and a newborn all on his own.

During a time of grief and pain, my brother and I had to also mourn the loss of our house and our friends and the life we had before. Unfortunately, I was just old enough for it to be the most horrible thing in the world, which also meant I was predisposed to hate Rosewood, regardless of how terrible or wonderful it really was when we arrived.

Part of me feels like I’m stuck in that same cycle now that I’ve been forced to return. But this time, I’m not so sure if I’ll ever be able to leave again or if I’ll be destined to stick around, which makes the emotional upheaval feel all the more dramatic.

As a child, this was the place I was forced to come after my mom died.

Now, it’s the place I was forced to come after having someone intentionally ruin any chance I have at following my dreams.

Anybody would hate this town if they were in my shoes.

“I’m sorry about the other night.”

I startle at the sound of Wes’s voice, having been lost in my thoughts for who knows how long. He looks straight ahead, one arm forward, his wrist resting easily on the steering wheel.

“What?”

“I said, I’m sorry about the other night. In the kitchen,” he continues, glancing at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

“What was that?” I prod, wanting answers if he’s willing to share. “Because it feels like … I mean, were you grossed out by something or not … turned on or …?”

I wrinkle my nose at how insecure that makes me sound, but I don’t try to backtrack. Even though I’m not insecure about most things, I am in this moment.

Wes sighs and flicks his blinker, turning us down the dirt lane that leads into the Trager farm. We both jostle at the uneven ground, the wheels bouncing us lightly.

“Part of me feels like I should tell you that I wasn’t turned on. That might make everything easier. At least for you.” He glances at me again. “But it couldn’t be further from the truth. I can’t remember being so turned on in my entire life.”